Falling
by vigirl
Summary: It’s been a painful year, and Sara is falling. Post-ep fic, up through LHB – G/S
1. Default Chapter

Title: Falling

Author: Alison Nixon

Rating: G

Category:   Drama/Angst/Romance

Spoilers: Mainly Recipe for Murder, but minor references to Season 3 up through Lady Heather's Box

Summary:  It's been a painful year, and Sara is falling.  Post-ep fic, up through LHB – G/S

Disclaimers: The usual. None of the characters are mine. They belong to Anthony Zuiker, CBS, et al.  

Feedback: Of course!  Please do let me know what you think.

Archival:  www.grissomandsara.com, otherwise please ask first. 

Author's Notes:  Well, as is often the case, it's hard to know what to say in the notes.  I guess this is my attempt to work through S3 events, taking Recipe for Murder as a starting point, and sort of working forward through Lady Heather's Box.  The story is told mostly from Sara's POV, but not entirely.  There are some shifts back and forth in time (including pre- RfM) that I hope aren't too confusing.  Anyway, here goes.  Thanks for reading…

**********

"Hey Sara, come here.  There's…someone I want you to meet."

She turned at the sound of his voice, one hand wedged into the pocket of her jeans, the other drumming a restless rhythm against the lean length of her thigh.  Her smile was vague, a barely passable attempt to hide--

Don't.  If you think it, you'll feel it…and you are not bored.  You're not.  

She moved towards him slowly, hoping to steal enough time to conjure into her face what she knew she should feel.   His smile deepened as she approached and when she was near enough, he steered her forward until her slender frame stood in front of his own.  As she stood with her back to him, he let his hands trace the long path from elbow to shoulder, stopping only when he found the base of her neck.  When he curled his fingers there, directly against her skin, she shivered.  

Was it his touch, or her falling temperature?   Only she knew for sure, and the fine bumps spread across her skin like shame.  

"Sara Sidle, meet the television I've been searching for all my life."

Even in the distorted reflection into which they stared, Hank's eyes were alight with possibility.  The possibility buried somewhere, Sara could only assume, in the twenty-inch plasma screen suspended in front of them. 

_He doesn't ask for much.  Can't you…?_

One hard blink drove the plea from her head to her mouth, which dutifully angled itself upward.

"Um…wow, Hank.  That's…cool."

"Didn't I tell you?"  He stepped forward eagerly, further reducing the distance between them.  "The sales guy said this one is top of the line, state of the art.  And, yes," he added, as if mocking her for objections made earlier, "it _is_ worth the investment.   All the tech trends say this plasma technology is going to change everything."

As he gently squeezed her neck, she tried to focus on what she saw in his eyes.  The loud conviction in his voice echoed against her ear.

"Pretty soon, we'll be at the point where looking at the pictures of a place on a TV like this will be almost as good as going there yourself."  He shook his head, grinning.  "It's amazing, when you think about it."

The frown scrambled her face even before he finished speaking. 

"Hank…that's not even…."   She tried not to sigh.  "A person's perception of a two-dimensional image can't even begin to substitute for his experiences in the real world.  Reality is empirical, multi-dimensional…interactive.  I mean, at best, an image can only approximate that.   In fact, most scientists—"

"Jesus, Sara, I'm not talking about the 'science' of it," he said sharply.  "I'm talking about the _experience_.  It'll be as if people don't have to leave home anymore to travel the world and 'be' somewhere else.  Somewhere else will come to you and 'be' wherever you are."

She crossed her arms and thrust her face forward.  The movement rounded her shoulders, which slipped a little underneath his hands.   

"Of course it's about _science_, Hank.  We're talking about how the brain works, the nature of human perception.   Our brain chemistry just doesn't process images as if they were equivalents to what actually exists.  How could it, when different areas of the brain are used depending on whether we just sit passively and watch something on screen, or whether we experience it in the real world?  Scientists can actually map those sorts of differences now.  There was a study done at John Hopkins last year--they used functional MRI to map which areas of the brain "light up" with cortical activity and--"

He exhaled suddenly, the force of his breath striking her face like a rough wind.   The torrent of words fell back from her lips, her eyes dropped from his.  With all the practice she'd had, it should have been second nature by now.   Softer tones.  Pliable language.  Holding back and holding in whatever might expose the stubborn fault lines between them.

Already regretting her tongue, she bent her head and pretended to study her feet.  He bent his head and pretended to study her.

How many times had he seen that look?  

She couldn't help it...the way her mind worked, the way her thoughts spilled out whether she flattered him, or not.  Some women wear their hearts on their sleeve, right?  Well, Sara wore her brain on hers.  He knew that, from the beginning.  Granted, it seemed funny at first, even sexy.  It still was…most of the time.  Hank shook his head again, minus the grin, as he let his eyes travel from her face to his hands, which still lay coiled against her neck.   

Maybe he was doing this for all the wrong reasons.  Maybe he should have walked away.  He might have, too, if it hadn't taken so long to even get her this far.  Besides, he wasn't one to walk away from what was willingly offered.  Even if he wasn't sure he really wanted everything else that came with it.   

******

_Every man is the hero of his own life._  

He'd heard that somewhere, a long time ago.  It was probably one of the few quotations he could recall at will, and which made some sort of real sense to him.   That sense might have come from the grand sweep of the words and their construction.   It might have come from the implied flattery.  Or maybe it had everything to do with his having first heard it as a boy, a boy like so many others.  The ones who never quite grow up to be the men they dreamed they would be.   

It was hard work, this heroism…so many costumes from which to choose.  Astronaut.  Fighter pilot.  Surgeon.  Paramedic.  Some people might have figured that devolution told the tale of his life.  But those didn't know about heroes.  Not the real ones.  The ones out there in the field, not in some soft hospital or office…not somewhere high above the earth where everything is empty and clean.  The real heroes are the ones who deal with the mess--the bullets and knives and car crashes and drug overdoses, and everything else.  With his own two hands, he had saved the lives of babies and boys, mothers and men.  He'd even called the time on those who didn't make it.  He'd done it all, just like any real hero would.  

Given all that hard work, of course he'd taken his reward.  It wasn't a hard thing to understand.  Women liked him.  He liked them.  No harm there.  Only the union of admired and the admiring, that's all.  As long as both sides were having a good time--and he could read women well enough to know that they almost always were—what was the problem?  Yes, there was always someone, and someone else, in his orbit.  So what?  It wasn't as if he pushed them for anything.  He didn't need to.  They usually did all the work for him.  Sara had been no different, although he did give her credit for playing fast and loose for a while.  She had been eager enough when he had come to the lab to ask her out without any preamble.  Most women would have balked at being expected to drop everything and have dinner when it was convenient for him.  Not Sara.  It was all for nothing, though, since they didn't actually make it out of the building.  There had been way too many girls that didn't smell of death for him to deal with her that night.  

But later, when she called…out of the blue…he found that she cleaned up all right.  Better than all right.  And that's how it began, in fits and starts with no discernible pattern.   No pattern, except that her work always came first.  No pattern, except that she could never seem to decide what she really wanted.  But even that was okay--there was no hurry.  He kept up with other women regardless, and if Sara wanted to wait, he could wait.  Whenever she was finished with whatever game she was playing, whether with him, or perhaps, with herself, he would be happy to take what she offered.  She was certainly pretty enough for that, and he'd always liked a challenge.   But it wasn't as if they had made each other any promises.  If she wanted to play, he'd play.  He had nothing to lose.

Sure, some things did bother him.  Like the way she didn't always play by the rules that united them--the admired and the admiring.  He could have ended it then, as soon as he saw the first lapse, and maybe he should have.   But…she was pretty and she was sexy, and sometimes, she was definitely a challenge.   So he just worked a little harder, redrawing his hero's angle until he could make it fit the problem at hand, until he could tip the scales once again.  Soon enough, instead of resenting every time her eyes wandered away when he spoke, he tried playing with ways to bring them back.  A compliment here, a little flattering innuendo there—nothing he hadn't done many times before.  Soon enough, instead of giving in to boredom when she talked endlessly about her work, he leaned forward and gave her the unwavering attention she seemed to need.  It was easy enough to do since it fit with his basic theory anyway.  She needed him.  He didn't need her.  He had a life, after all.  She only had her work.   

These fables had become so familiar during their time together that he didn't even think of them as such anymore.   There was no need to question their assumptions, or think himself callous, not when Sara confirmed them.  It was her work, she said again and again, always before launching into another lengthy explanation of her day with dead bodies that he didn't need to hear.  Explanations he could do without, but the apologies that followed…those were another matter.  She was at her…sweetest and most…affectionate…when she felt she the need to apologize.  Lately, it seemed she spent a lot of time making things up to him.  He hadn't the faintest clue as to what had turned the tide, but she had suddenly stopped putting him off every time his kiss goodnight lingered a little too long, or his touches roamed too freely.   Another man might have wondered why, but heroes don't need to question good things.  Good things happen to heroes all the time, with one girl or another, sooner or later.   

It could have been anything, of course.  The answer might well have been there in all the talk of her cases and her colleagues, but there was so much to wade through he just couldn't know for sure.  It _had_ been odd, that first time together, when she seemed so…quiet.  She had been going on and on about something…being cooped up…needing to get clear…back in the field.  But her boss…wasn't talking, or seeing…he had been so different--more like he used to be.  The words came out rather like that, disjointed, disconnected, and almost sad.  He remembered only half-listening, thinking that it sounded too heavy and weird for a simple matter of getting the man's signature on a piece of paper.  He also remembered that it sounded like some typically complicated Sara saga that he had no intention of drowning in.   Especially since it wasn't as if this was some real relationship they were in, the kind where he had to listen and care about everything that ever happened to her in life.   Especially since it wasn't some real relationship, the kind where the right man might have decided to really be a hero to her, instead of just playing one.        

_How many times have I seen that look on her face? _ 

She was gnawing at her lips doggedly, struggling to see what he wanted her to see, struggling to fix whatever needed fixing.  He could actually see it, all of the upheaval passing in waves over that pretty face.  It was like watching an old-fashioned picture show play against the white screen of her skin.  As he watched the frames of her mind scroll past, he felt his shoulders begin to relax again.  She was sweet to take everything so seriously all of a sudden, but truthfully, he could do without the angst.   If he was going to spend his day off with her, instead of someone else he could call, the last thing he wanted to do was argue.  Life was definitely too short for that.   

Brushing the back of his hand against her neck, he exhaled the last of these thoughts into the air just above her bowed head.  He then raised both hands in exaggerated surrender.  

"Okay, okay, Sidle, I am officially shutting up now.  Never mind.  Just trying to stretch myself a little here.  Let's just have a good time…okay?"

Their eyes met, paired reflections jumping in tandem.  His grin.  Her guilt.  She stared at him, even as she stared at herself. 

_He's trying, and all you can do is get hung up on some stupid intellectual point about …about nothing…He was just trying to play with an idea, for you, to have a conversation with you…What is that you want?  Not everybody is…you can't expect…_

Whatever she expected, she knew what she would get before long.  

_Girl meets guy.  Girl can't even pretend to be normal.  Guy decides she's hard work.  Girl goes back to being alone.  _

_Aren't you tired of that yet?  _

_Aren't you? _

The long breath wound its way through her like smoke, obscuring all that she should have seen.

"I, I'm sorry, I was being too…literal, or too…I just, like, totally missed your point, didn't I?"  

Bright and wide, the smile appeared on cue.  She would make it up to him.  She would fix it. 

"You know, these plasma screens are the latest thing in Hollywood.  I heard on the news that one of the networks gave one of these to all the stars of their biggest show.  What a big step up from some crappy fruit basket, right?  I mean, the very best models cost close to fifty thousand—"

She heard the laugh in the moment before he bent his head to stop the flow of words.  Surprised, relieved, she turned her face and pressed her lips to his.  She stood there with his arms around her waist, her back to his chest, feeling less pleasure than a strange sense of purpose. The same purpose she called upon every time he touched her, every time she had to seal her mind against thoughts of all that she should be feeling, but did not.  

Doubts would just lead to her being alone.  What use were they?   

Maybe he wasn't the man she wanted.  But he was the man she had.  

******

_Those must be the parents._  

Two ordinary, middle-aged people, both too smooth and unlined to be the parents of anyone old enough to live on her own, far less to die that way.  Two people staring at her like…like survivors of a shipwreck standing on some hard shore, watching the horizon for what will never come.  It was probably a character flaw, never knowing quite what to say to certain families…the quiet ones like these, the ones who don't cry and rail against fate, fortune, or whatever else they needed to believe was to blame, instead of their loved one's own hand.  Control, composure, and yet the shock and grief had to be there, under the skin, burrowing a new home in every bone and muscle they had.  How is it done, this business of hiding it all where no one can see?  When you suffer, when is the right time to scream, to cry, to lose yourself in pain?  Sara could only wonder.  She still lost herself on a regular basis, even after all these years.  

Looking away from the survivors, she mounted the final set of steps that would take her past old questions and into the new, those posed by what remained of a living, breathing human being.  What remained of a specific someone, with a name and a face, and two stricken people standing below where she used to live, half-expecting her to come out and step back into their arms one last time.  

"Hey."

It was like another part of her switched itself on.  

He stood tall, as always, hands on his hips, his face still recognizable even in the face of death having taken someone before he could do anything about it.  He wasn't a complicated man, that she did not try to pretend, but he was…solid and strong.  _There are lovers and fighters, doers and thinkers._  _He's a doer…not the worst thing in the world, right? _ She wanted to smile so that he could see that it was not, but she suppressed the impulse and merely looked at him instead.

"Hey."  

True to their agreement, he kept his voice as neutral as hers.  After briefly meeting her look, he immediately returned to the reason they were both here. 

"Time of death 7:20, coroner will be able to tell you more. It looks like she bled out. Left wrist is transected."  

_"Hank is not my boyfriend."_

Another little lie, but for his own good.  It wasn't herself she was covering for, anyway.  

_"You date…you share a subtle communication. Did he move the bra to where you might have wanted it?"  _

_No, and no.  I date him, but we don't do anything subtle.  And maybe we communicate, but not without words, nothing like the way I can just look at…_

_But words are better, aren't they?  If you say it, you think it.  If you say it, you feel it.  Intentional.  Volitional.  Right?  That's why Grissom never says much of anything at all, so that I can never quote him on the one thing that really matters.  Play back everything I say, little girl, but not that…_

_So, again I say no, and no.  I don't do anything subtle, and I barely communicate with the man in front of me at all.  And yet, he's still with me, still wants to be with me.  That's counts, doesn't it…doesn't it?_

"It's not typical for a female.  Women usually commit suicide in a tub.  Easier cleanup for whoever's left behind."

He could have left by now, but he hadn't.  He stayed, not looking at her, not doing anything noticeable, just like they had agreed.  It wasn't that she was ashamed of anything.   She was just trying to make things easier for him.  It was better for him if people didn't know.  _I don't care who knows.  I don't.  It's no one's business.  I just think it's better for him to keep it quiet.  For him.  Not for me._  

She could hear Warrick talking.  The deflection gave Hank a chance to finally look up at her.  She kept her face blank.

_"I like the way you work."_  That was their second date.  The second one that felt real, anyway and she knew that she ought to want something from this, from him.  _"It's…sexy. You probably sound so good when you sing."_  That was their third date, when even something so obvious had meant more than it should.  _"Mind?  No way.  You tell great dead-body stories."_  That was the fourth, when it occurred to her that he couldn't really want something from this, from her.  By the fifth, he had kissed her, holding her close and saying all those nice things to her all over again, without speaking a word.  Communication, perhaps, but hardly subtle…  

By the sixth, she had found a way to not pull away the first second a familiar face floated somewhere beneath her closed lids.  Not that Hank would have let her pull away, after a while.  He had made up his mind about her, he declared, smiling as if he was joking, staring as if he was not.  _I'm good for you, you know._  Bold, strong, and a little too sure of his ground.  But also…clear, unconfused, and so very, very normal.  A normal guy who seemed to like a not-so-normal girl, a proposition she was just now starting to believe.  So what if part of what she hoped was that the normalcy would leap from him to her?  If being normal meant feeling what she could at least pass off to herself as happiness, then…

"Did her parents say whether she was dating a man?"  

Her eyes traveled the normal route, from the bloody straight edge back to the body's bloodied arm.  Not to him, though.  _Doesn't that prove I can do this?  Or does it prove I don't feel this?_  She could never keep her eyes away from…but then, he wasn't the man she had, was he?  He was the man who had her.  No wonder she looked and looked and never got enough of simply watching him.

"She was dating a Brody Jones."  

Hank should have left by now, but he hadn't.  She had really been asking the detective, but Hank answered anyway, a small thing that pleased her.  Maybe she really didn't bore him.  Maybe he didn't really bore her.  _How could a man who listens to you not be enough? _

"Did somebody move this body?"

"I found her propped up like this when I came in."

She nodded.  

Warrick was frowning.  He didn't honestly think Hank would have moved the body and not told her?  They'd been through this before and he had told her then, even before he had made up his mind about her.  Even before he decided to not let her pull away.  Even before she stopped trying to.  Even before…

----

_"Hey."  A quick flashing grin she is sure he can see from across the room._

_Well, he almost smiled, she thought, watching his eyes drop from her face to her lips.  Maybe that was a good sign…instinctive male mating response.  She grinned a little more, laughing at herself and at him._

_She walked further into his office, strangely excited like a child with a secret that only he and she knew.  Something had happened a few days ago, he knew it and she knew it.  But she would be patient and not push.  As long as he had her, there was no need._

_He had lowered his eyes to his laptop again.  Trying to be discreet, she decided.   _

_"So, um…I was wondering if we could…talk about my overtime?  You know, this business about my not being able to go out in the field for a while."_

_"There's nothing I can do, Sara.  Protocol's protocol."_

_"Oh come on, Grissom.  You know I can handle being maxed out on overtime without needing some enforced break."_

_He looked up, his face carefully composed._

_She dared it.  _

_"Besides, you know you'll miss me."_

_His eyes didn't waver.  _

_"I thought you were getting a life these days."  He shuffled some papers to the right of his screen. "You have the time…go live it.  It is allowed, you know."_

_Could he…could he actually be smiling at her?_

_"I, I don't need to be forced to stay in the lab in order to have a life, Grissom."  _

_"Is it harder to know what we need, or what we want?  In this case, it's probably harder to know what we need, isn't it?"_

_He moved his lips into that small, indecipherable smile, the one she was sure contained nothing more than a reflex. _

_Again, she had misunderstood.  It seemed that having a woman did not mean that you actually want her.  _

_She smiled, hugely…falsely._

_"Yeah, Grissom.  Damn near impossible."   _

_She pivoted so quickly that she missed his puzzled frown, and although she almost hesitated near the door in the hope he would call her name, he did not.  She was halfway down the hall before she slowed down enough to notice Catherine in one of the layout rooms, moving her hands among a tangle of tree limbs.  Maybe he wasn't tired of riddles, but she was.  Without waiting to change her mind, or to decide how to speak, she went in.  _

-----

"With all your life-saving efforts, you didn't move her?"

_No, he didn't. _

"Hey, man, like I said: I checked for vitals."

_He doesn't ask for much.  Can't you…_

Her eyes drifted up to his.  She answered her own question, a mere matter of continuing her train of thought.  _If you think it, you'll feel it.                           _

"It's okay, baby."

_If you say it, you feel it.  Intentional.  Volitional.  Right?_

She hid in the closet, her face aflame.  He made some joke.  She smiled, hoping to conjure into her face the things she knew she should feel.  

Sleight of hand had indeed become a way of life.  As necessary as air.  He might not be the man she wanted, but he was still the man she had.  

*******

She slid her slim hips into the Tahoe, tossing her leather jacket through the space between the front seats.  Warrick was settling himself in beside her, but she kept her eyes focused on the windshield, praying that he would just let it go.  _Business as usual.  Don't even acknowledge it.  Move on_.  That inner voice seemed steady enough, but her small hands still shook as they grasped the wheel.  She had never taken feeling foolish very well.  Warrick probably thought she was some kind of freaking moron.

_Why did I say that?  Why?_  She had been repeating the same question, fruitlessly, ever since Hank left.  While he was still there, she could force a smile onto her face—she'd had more than enough practice in the past few months, and the last thing she wanted was to embarrass him by seeming ashamed of what had come out of her own mouth.  And she wasn't ashamed, not exactly, just… Her head fell forward as she shrank into herself a little more.  Maybe it was better not to dig too deeply into what she was right now.  The only thing left to hope for was Warrick's silence.  

"So…ready when you are, Sara."

When she turned to him, she could almost feel her smile pulling her skin apart, as if those three little words had stretched it too tightly over the bones of her face.  

"Are we done here, or what?  We need to get back to the lab sometime today."  He looked amused.  "Evidence being time sensitive and all."

He waited for her reaction before turning thoughtful.  "Is that your Joker smile?"

She blinked.  

"You've got it down…that big ass grin so tight you just know he was the victim of some comic book disaster."  His eyes flickered back toward the apartment building.  "I don't recall you falling into any vats of Super Fund waste up there, so…what is it?"

The grin, which was little more than a pained exposure of her teeth, finally faltered and fell completely.  _Leave it to me to stop smiling only after somebody tries to make me feel better.  Thanks, but…I don't think I want to feel better.  Better is worse, better is one step further away from…_

"It's nothing, Warrick."

"I mean, what you said might qualify as an industrial accident, but nothing that ought to justify _that_ expression."

She tried to laugh.

In typical fashion, he just said it, without adornment or cheap sympathy.  "You embarrassed yourself."  

"I…it just came out…I didn't even…"  She fixed her eyes on the dashboard and began fiddling with the indicators, not caring what she touched.

Warrick nodded, tapping his long fingers against his jeans.

"Well, did you mean it?"

She tried her best to slide further into the leather folds of her seat, but there was no place to go.     

"…Of course I meant it, Warrick." The laugh was a little more convincing this time.  "Why else would I say it?"

He looked at her so long that she finally turned back to him.

"You tell me."

********

Even at the worst moment, the one even worse than the moment she knew her child was gone, Sara marveled at the woman's control.  She stood without speaking, nearly as unlined as before, nearly as ordinary, and nearly as empty as she stared at the man she loved.  It was worthy of a Greek tragedy, complete with stricken heroine and unfortunate child struck down by its own father in a fit of…love, fear…madness?  He had cut his own daughter, cut her to keep her whole, cut her before he cried into her sleeve, the one that hung in her closet but would never again hang on her.  She had been sacrificed, but to what no one could say. 

_When will she break?  When? _ Even in the face of this new worst moment, Sara had yet to see the woman shed a single tear.  Some people were like that, too stunned to even generate the outward signs of distress.  It was admirable, but lonely.  Without the tears, it was too easy for people to get away with saying nothing.  But then, what was there to say?  Unless the words you offered could undo what had happened to this family, whatever you did say would make very little difference at all.  Maybe Warrick was right, maybe the father did go mad trying to keep his daughter sane.   

As she trailed Warrick out of the house with her head down, she asked herself the question that never really left her.  Was this justice?  "_What are we doing?  Digging up graves, chasing prints…If it's not good in court…If the killers win…"_   Was this man a killer?  A real one, like the worst of them?  He did take a life, but… She sighed.  Grissom was right, as always.  _One of life's riddles…_ Warrick was driving this time.  She was glad—she needed the time to make up her mind.  Should she go find him when they made back to the lab?  When she felt like this, he was the one person she wanted to talk to, and to hear.  Whether he said what she wanted to hear or not, just his taking the time to listen and stand somewhere nearby when she tried to make sense of things was a comfort.  He probably could have recited the entomological roots of his favorite beetle and that would have been enough, as long as he was near, and directing the recitation to her and her alone.

Oh yes, he has me.  Even if she was right… 

----

She just caught the flash of the blonde's small form slipping out of the front door.  _Where is she going?  She hasn't even told me what he said!  _Moving swiftly, Sara followed.  She had been quite a ways down the hall when she caught the glimpse of Catherine leaving, and with that head start, even her long stride didn't close the distance between them until the older woman was nearly at her car.

"Catherine!" 

She breathed in, trying to catch her breath, which fluttered more from nerves than exertion.

"I just wanted to find out…so did you talk to him?"

Catherine watched Sara try to sound normal, instead of breathless.  And nervous, she noted, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"I talked to him.  Well, if you can call it talking when one person communicates and the other doesn't."

Sara tried to smile.  "So…what did he say exactly?"

"You mean, did he say 'I'm sorry I've been so distant, Catherine, but I've got a lot on my mind, why don't you sit down and I'll tell you all about it?'"  She crossed her arms, giving Sara a hard look.  "No, he didn't."

Her colleague looked away as a light wind blew her hair into her face.

"What did you expect, Sara?"

"I…nothing, I just thought he'd talk to you if…."

"If he wouldn't talk to you, right?"

They stared at each other for a beat.  Sara looked away a second time.

"Look, if you and Grissom are having some kind of personal problem--"

"It's not a personal problem, all right," Sara said coldly.  "I just thought that while you were handing out compliments to Nick and Warrick about their work, maybe you'd like to play supervisor for me, too." 

They stared again.  Sara didn't look away.

Smiling without really smiling, Catherine cocked her head.

"Well, that's gratitude for you.  Do you have a problem with my letting my colleagues know when they've done a good job?"

"I have a problem with you treating my request as some personal problem between me and my boss instead of treating it the way you would if it was Warrick who asked for your help, instead of me."

"When the shoe fits…"

"_Look--_"

Catherine cut her short, slicing the air between them with one small hand. 

"Whatever your issue is, Sara, it isn't about overtime, so don't bullshit me, okay?  I'm not getting in the middle of this.  It's a waste of time, and it's getting in the way of our work.  You can either deal with it yourself, or not, but don't try to get me to deal with it for you.  If you want to find out what's going on, ask him. If you don't have the guts for that, then I suggest you go out and have a good time with your boyfriend."

The words seemed encased in ice.  "I told you, he's not my boyfriend."

"Yeah, Sara. Right."  Catherine nodded and almost laughed.  "Oh, I bet I know what it is.  So you think as long as you haven't slept with him, he isn't your boyfriend, right?"

When the other woman's heightened color gave her away, she pressed on, leaning forward to punctuate her words.

"Well, if you think anyone is buying that little distinction, you should think again.  We all know what's going on.  _All_ of us."

"Why do you all care so much about my personal life, huh?  What business is it of yours?"

"It isn't, and I don't want it to be.  I'm just offering you a little friendly advice.  _The damage is done_.  You might as well have a little fun now that you've burned those bridges."  

"What do you mean?  What 'damage'?"

Catherine said nothing.  Sara quelled the urge to run her hands over her face to try and erase what she feared must be showing there.  One hand began to move, but she stopped it in time.   _What did he tell her?  What has he been telling her?  Oh, God…_

"Good night, Sara."

Catherine turned and unlocked the door to her car.  She was already inside, her purse thrown onto the passenger seat, when Sara's tall frame blocked her window.  Catherine could see her breathing heavily.  The girl looked scared.

"Look, forget it, okay?  It is none of my business.  Nobody can read him really, so what do I know?  Just go on and live your life, Sara.  That's all anybody can do."

It was nearly dusk, and she was looking up at Sara from an odd angle, seeing her face only in the few inches between the top of the open car door and the straight line made by the edge of the car's roof.  It was a narrow vantage point, a distorted perspective, but still, she would have sworn that she saw the glisten of moisture in the younger woman's eyes.  She felt a tinge of guilt and made her voice a little softer.

"That's all anybody can do."  Catherine wrapped her fingers around the door handle and held it tightly.  Before she pulled it closed, she tried to smile.  "Try to have a good night.  At least you're not alone, right?"

Sara stepped back a moment after she heard the door slam shut.  She didn't wait to see the car begin to pull out.  The wind was pushing her hair into her face again, nearly blinding her.  She didn't bother to push it aside.  There wasn't much point.  There wasn't much point to anything, anymore.  Not one damn thing.

-----


	2. Chapter Two

Falling

Chapter Two

Disclaimers: See Chapter One

*******

She left Warrick still gathering his things from the Tahoe and moved towards the lab's front door.  As she put her hand on the thick layer of glass to force it backward, she saw him.  He came towards her slowly, his eyes trained on the floor, seemingly oblivious to anything outside of the strictly limited zone between his head and the invisible point on the floor that so fascinated him.  Sad as it was, she knew that if he would have her, she would fit herself anywhere inside that little space, anywhere at all.  She knew what he said to Warrick a few months back.  "I guess I just got…bored."  He hadn't been talking about her, she knew, but lately she had begun to fear exactly that.  Now she was ordinary, just like every other messed up human being he knew, just like every lying suspect who thought they could fool him.  It might not have stung so much if she didn't know that she had fooled most of all.  But it was too late now.  The damage had been done.

She hadn't moved since he came into her line of sight, and she still stood on the outside of the door with her hand laid flat against the glass.  He didn't look up as he approached, but he must have sensed someone was there, blocking his way.  As she watched his head rise from its lowered position and waited for the little jolt she always felt when he looked directly at her, she wondered what he would say if she told him she wanted to talk to him.  About her case…about anything, if he would just say yes.  The jolt came as his eyes settled on hers, and something seemed to pass between them, heedless of the barrier.   She took a step back as he pulled open the door and passed through to where she was.  The blueness she had lost herself in had never left her face.  He said nothing, and waited.  She found the words she would need and opened her mouth.  

"Hey, guys."

Grissom's eyes slid away.  Warrick looked from him to Sara, and back again.

"Hey," Sara said faintly.  

"What's up?  I'm not interrupting, am I?"

She stared at Grissom, willing him to look up.  When he did, it hit her.  She had no idea how to say what needed saying, not after all this time.  Not when she couldn't even claim that she knew he loved her and that her boldness was simply a lover's prerogative.  How could she begin to talk about what was in her heart when she was so ignorant of what was in his?  Simple linguistics.  Each party to a conversation has a role, an identity that frames the encounter and supplies its rules.  If one party does not have standing to converse, if she does not yet know what she is to the man to whom she wishes to speak, what is there to say?  On what identity could she rely when the words failed and it was time to simply ask him if he wanted her?  He owed her nothing, and she had no right to ask.  He had never talked of love, and neither had she.  Without that, who in the world was she to say anything at all?  What could be her claim?  

"No, you're not."  His eyes darkened as she spoke, she was almost sure of it.  But she was already in retreat, and it was too late to turn back now.  

"No, Warrick…of course not.  I was on my way out, so…good night."

"Yeah…good night."

She might have stood there, watching him walk away until the moment his car had left the lot, but Warrick brushed past her and held open the door.  Afraid of looking even more foolish than she already did, she went in wondering why she shivered even after the door had closed the night air behind her.

Laying in the dark, night after night, she replays the moment in her mind, again and again.  The moment she told Warrick that she would meet him inside.  The moment she and Grissom were again alone.  The moment she asked to speak with him, followed by the moment she decided to let the roles go for a while.  He says yes every time in her dream, and waits for her to put her things away before joining him again outside.  He follows her to her place, or she follows him to his.  Words are exchanged; she tries on a role to see if it fits.  When he touches her and kisses her everywhere, she knows that it does.  The last thing she recalls is his soft voice, whispering that she'd had standing all along.  He had only been waiting for her to claim it.  

Hours later, she woke up in a haze, her mind still full of that present tense that fuels all dreams. She almost expected to see him there, his head next to hers.  It took her several minutes to recall that she had made a date with Hank, and if she didn't get moving soon, she would be late.  As she stumbled on her way to the bathroom like someone drunk, some part of her kept on dreaming.  If only she could remember the precise words she had used.  If only she could remember just where he said she had been standing, all along.

********

Taking advantage of Hank's distraction by a Phillips plasma screen she swore was bigger than some people's backyards, Sara murmured an excuse as she gently detached her arm from his.  As she had hoped, here was her opportunity to wander off on her own, away from his excited chatter.  God only knew why the TV-related displays captivated him so—just about every techno-gadget created in the last year was packed into this show.  If it computed, telephoned, organized, recorded or played, the latest whiz-bang incarnation of it was here in the Vegas Consumer Electronics Show.  So much to see, she marveled, and yet, he was most intrigued by what were essentially the most expensive television sets in the world.  

As she threaded her way through the crowd, Sara craned her neck to see if the floor map she had been using was indeed leading her to the "Audio" section.  It was hard to see any of the directional signs clearly amid the forest of company logos and banners, but she figured the Moby video currently being broadcast from one of four large flat screens suspended from the rafters down at the end of the aisle was a good clue.   She watched, bemused by the sight of the slender musician lounging across the screen in his best faux glam-rock attire, complete with feathered jacket, white leather boots and hipper-than-thou shades.  Gwen Stefani, his guest voice, lightly grasped his arm as she swayed to one of his more infectious beats. They were an incongruous pair, but seeing them made Sara smile.  She could definitely hide in here—Hank hated Moby.  Hank hated most of the music she liked, actually, preferring twangy "new" country, of all things, to pop or alternative.  Hardly a match made in music heaven, she knew, but somehow they survived.  Of course, spending as little time as possible in each other's cars and homes helped, since leaving the music selection to anonymous third parties in public places seemed to work best.  Sara shook her head.  Something must be off when two people find it easier to agree on the merits of easy listening Muzak than on each other's CDs.

Pushing the thought aside, she continued to advance, her eyes sweeping the aisle.  The sheer number of consumer goods on display, each representing a distinct innovation on existing technology, was impressive.  Walkman-sized personal video players with four-inch screens and a convenient belt clip.  Floating computer screens, wireless and fully portable.  No power cord, no mouse, just a lightweight flat panel and fingertip navigation via the latest touch screen technology.  Videophones that beam a caller's image straight into your TV set or PDA, and then bounce your image back to them.  There were even four-foot high mini-satellites that mount onto your car and beam down live TV.  No more DVDs that you've practically memorized because you've seen them so often.  Cool, Sara mused.  _In theory._  Of course, the reality was that any parent suckered into buying it might as well give up, buy that lifetime membership in Barney's Playhouse and just get it over with.   

Still…it would be a rather nice problem to have.  How to pass the time on road trips, those slow meandering drives to the redwoods, the Sierras, or down the California coast, wherever the family wanted to go.  _You mean wherever our family wanted to go, don't you?  That would be the one you'll have with the man you're not seeing.  _She managed a smile, but it was a joyless one.  It wasn't her biological clock, or some marriage timetable, nothing like that.  But she had been feeling something.  Some kind of nostalgia, or what would have been nostalgia if it linked her to the past, instead of the future.  Her mind had been full of such anticipations of late, imagining herself amid rings and vows, children and dogs, old age and stubborn, old love—her own white picket fence dream.  The dream she would happily confess to having, if…She bit her tongue, giving herself a purposeful hurt.  Sharp shocks sometimes helped to force him from her mind.  But these days, she knew there wasn't a shock in the world that could chase the news away. 

It had little to do with either logic or sense, and even less with fairness, but still, she had assumed.   Assumed that he was still in stasis, just waiting for the perfect, fateful moment that would bring them back together.  She had counted on that, even after she herself stopped waiting for him.  He was Grissom.  The steadiest man she knew, the most pure and…true. That such a man might weaken, taking what comfort he could, where he could…well, that had never seemed possible.  She had done those things, yes.  But she was Sara.  He was Grissom.  He often lost his bearings on the path they shared, stepping backward when he should move forward, but she never imagined he might lose sight of the path altogether.  A woman in love and in awe rarely imagines such things, and she was both.  

_I should have known. I should have seen…._

It was simple, really, when she took a step back from the hurt of it.  She loved him, but still sought the comfort of another.  Now, so had he.  She loved him, but still chose to let another hold her.  Now, so had he.  The hurt of it was like an ugly wound, but…but he was still her friend, and always would be.  Surely she should want for him whatever gave him a little happiness, a little ease.  Just as he had wanted that for her, even before she wanted it for herself.  Maybe they should be proud of such largesse, such willingness to give each other the lives they deserved.  _The lives we deserve, just not with each other.  _ 

She'd heard the same things the others had.  Gossip, rumors, whispered asides.  Everyone claimed they couldn't imagine what he had been thinking. But she could.   Whether he loved this woman or not, whether he planned to ever be with her again or not, he wouldn't much care about their shock or dismay.  He wasn't built that way, as they should have guessed by the way he ignored their reactions to Sara herself when he brought her back into his world without any real explanation, and invited her to stay with even less.  For as long as Sara had known him, he had valued her based on what he saw, not what others told him to see.  Perhaps she was foolish, or too much in love, but she found it hard to hate that part of who he was. The very part of him that kept him from walking away the first time she cried and raged, the first time she'd let the Sara he did not understand push aside the one he did.  The others should have understood, or at least tried to.  He was surrounded by them, people it would be easy to dismiss as irrevocably tainted, by addictions, by bad choices, by the way they had sold their own skin not out of desperation, but simply for the good living they made.  Yet, somehow, he found a way to not judge them for whatever it was that made that behavior possible. If he wouldn't reject them, even as friends, why would he reject that woman?   _He wouldn't._  Not as long as he thought he could separate her work from the person she was inside.   

_"If you want people to not judge you, the best place to start is by not judging them.  The rest of the world calls that being a Good Samaritan.  In forensics, we call it following the evidence.  That means withholding judgment until you have no choice…until you have evidence and you have used your best science to decide what it means."_  Some of slackers around her had snickered or gaped with faces as empty as their minds, but she had simply stared at him until he had no choice but to stare back.  That was the first time this question of judgments had passed between them.  The second time was…the second time was years ago, on one of those brisk, cold Bay Area nights when they had left the lab and gone back to her place to eat and talk.  A night when her temperamental wiring died, again, and his tiredness and chill made him agree to lie down with her under the only warmth in the room, the warmth of her bed.  A night, years ago, when his defenses were low enough for her to touch him, one small hand on the back of his neck, trying desperately to make love, if only through the tips of her fingers_…_

----

_"I love what I do, and…yes, what I do is done among the dead, but…that doesn't mean…it doesn't mean I love death and loss and--"  _

_"He was just trying to get to you. That's not who you are…"  _

_"You can't know that."_

_"I do know."  _

_"You can't, Sara."  _

_"But I do."_

_His voice was soft, and so quiet.  "How can you know, Sara?"_

_"I can't…explain it, Grissom--"_

_As he shifted his head on her pillow, he managed to move himself an inch further away.  Her cheek smoothed the cotton fabric as she closed the distance.  _

_"I can't explain, but…I can show you…if you let me…"  _

_Her fingers brushed his neck as she spread them just far enough to place her mouth against his skin._

_"Let me show you…let me show you…"_

There was a time, not too long ago, when she dreamt of that moment every night.  The moment she felt the sudden arch in his back as she kissed his skin, the moment he turned his body to hers and stared at her in the dark.  Now, when it seemed that she should dream of it no longer, she had to wonder if those were the words she had tried so desperately to bring back as she stumbled into her days.  The words that made him tell her she'd always had standing--he had only been waiting for her to claim it.  

_She was just trying to get to you.  That's not who you are.  _

_I do know._

_I do._

----

As her heart measured its memories, she wandered forward as if blind, unaware of what was before her.  It was only when a sticky, excited child rammed her on his way to see if the little satellite really could beam down Barney, and his father, trotting to keep up, apologized breathlessly somewhere close to her ear that she came back.  As she bent to rub the shin the boy had bruised, she could see just how far away her mind had been.  The Sony booth was directly across the aisle.  Above it, slightly higher than eye level, the Sony banner, large and black with silver lettering, sparkled as if flecked with glitter.  Every available surface was piled high with audio displays and Sara could see the company's representatives working the crowd.  Each one wore a black Sony T-shirt as they handed out CDs and DVDs like candy, and gestured frequently to the screens that hovered above the banner.  The screens captured everything from streaming video to song lyrics to websites—whatever the various Sony products people were playing with happened to beam to them via wireless connection.  

Sara pulled herself upright and took a long, deep breath.  Reliving the past was going to get her precisely nowhere.  He was different now, and so was she.  Nothing had really happened then, or now, and it was probably for the best.  If she were still the same person, she wouldn't be standing here right now.  The old Sara missed things like this, just like she'd missed this particular show in each of the past three years.  Old Sara, old pattern--every year, she meant to go and thought about going, but every year brought a new excuse.  Her work, her need to catch up on articles…her crazy bargains to let herself go only if she dared to call Grissom and get him to come with her, and other assorted pipe dreams.  Despite that useless track record, though, here she was at last.  Doing what she wanted to do instead of just thinking about it.  

_I should give him more credit, shouldn't I?  _Hank was the reason she was here, truthfully.  Being with him, being in this relationship forced her to find things to do.  The movies had gotten old, and he expected more from a girlfriend than that.  Without that motivation, she knew she would still be sitting at home, waiting for a man who would never call, a man who was probably sitting at home watching his bugs enact some fascinating Darwinian struggle at this very moment.  She laughed, or tried to.  As she drew another deep breath, she slowly forced her shoulders back and her head up.  All she had to do was look at things from the right angle.  She was actually here this year—that was proof that she was doing the right thing, wasn't it?  Being with someone forced her out of her routine, forced her to get a life.  She needed that.  Besides, it wasn't as if Grissom really cared, anyway.  He was content with his life as it was, and that included her absence from it.  That stung like hell, but it was time she started telling herself the truth.  

Nodding again and again, as if the repetitive motion would make the lie true, she folded both arms around her waist and refocused on her surroundings.  One thing was certain: this was indeed the place for her.  As the news coverage had promised, it was a "techie geek's dream."   The convention center was huge, and every square foot of it seemed to be crawling with people, including many who probably flew in just for this weekend.  Sara could understand the enthusiasm.  All the big players were here: Microsoft, Sony, Phillips, Motorola, Ericsson, and all the smaller ones, too.  No matter their public profile, all had the same goal: tickling the tech fantasies of both store buyers and the public, or at least that small segment of it which thrives on the thought of being among the first to own and experiment with things that are truly cutting edge.

It was fun being an "early adopter," as Sara knew.  Call it one of the benefits of being a psych study veteran.  She did so many of those $10 an hour research experiments in college, her friends started calling her the most researched woman in America—Sara Sidle, Subject Zero.  They were probably right, of course, but to her it had been easy money, earned scientifically.  So what if she eventually heard that her name had made it onto some "Banned Subjects" list due to the odds of her participation becoming ever less "random" over time?  Given that she had found out that she was a tech innovator (among other things) before that dark day, she figured she'd still come out ahead.  Now she had a ready-made excuse for her love of gadgets.  It was part of her basic personality, right?  How could she be blamed for that?  Besides, it wasn't as if she limited herself to the TVs, like…she caught herself, again.  _Am I really that much of a snob? _ There was nothing wrong with Hank's…interest.  She just didn't ascribe to it all the socially transformative qualities that he did.   _Maybe that's my problem—I can't see what he sees.  Maybe it's me, not him._

Unwilling to restart an argument that she wasn't ready to win, she set the thought aside and continued to inch forward.  She was looking for a specific piece of Sony audio hardware, the one that had most intrigued her when she scanned the previews of the show in the local paper.   Unless her eyes deceived her, it looked like the MP3 players were all gathered on the table farthest to the right.  Just about every section of the booth was clogged with browsers, but there was a small opening that promised to get Sara quite close to the object in question.  Ducking her head slightly, she angled her lean frame in between the bodies in her path.  Having made it to the small clearing, she planted her feet comfortably and slid her bag onto the table.  She had already given serious thought to buying the player when it hit the market, but it would have to pass a few tests first.  In other words, she teased herself, you can take the girl out of the lab, but you can't take the lab out of the girl. 

The first thing she noticed was the player itself, which couldn't have been much larger or heavier than a tube of lipstick.  She'd wondered about that--the weight of the thing around your neck as it hung from its cord, or lanyard.  Of course, it was this seemingly low-tech part of the device--the half-inch wide, flat strap--that represented the innovation.  If it actually worked as a piece of wearable technology, the possibilities were limitless.  This could well become the technology that would pave the way for wearable PDAs and computers, where your shirt is the screen and your buttons are the drives for your floppies and DVDs.  She had seen digital storage disks that small just a few aisles over, so perhaps the prospect wasn't very far off.  Geek that she was, how could she not be excited about playing with what might well mark the beginning of a real tech revolution?   

Smiling at the very idea, Sara extended an eager hand into the pile and took hold of the first lanyard her fingers touched.  She gave it a pull, but the strap seemed to be caught.  She tugged again, jerking it with rather more force.  This time, she could see the material stretch slightly as somethingtugged back.  Exasperated, Sara leaned forward to catch the eye of whatever obnoxious little gadget geek was trying to steal her fun.   

"Grissom."

Just like that, there he was.  She could feel the jolt travel all along her body. 

"What…where did you come from?"

He seemed to hesitate, as if deciding what tone to take.  "My mother?" 

The smile lit up her face, and he could feel the muscles in his shoulders began to relax.  Sara's smiles were good that way, even after all these years.

"So, you didn't leap out Zeus' head fully formed.  Good to know."   She wondered how foolishly large her smile must be; he seemed to be staring at her mouth.  "I mean, why didn't I see you?"

"Because I worked my way into the crowd after you did."  He seemed to smile, briefly.  "I was behind you."

"Oh."  

She looked away, plucking at the white linen covering the table with nervous fingers.  _Coincidence.  No big deal. _ Still, she fell silent, suddenly unsure of what to say next.  He must have felt the same constraint; he followed her lead.  Finally, as one painfully long minute threatened to expand into two, he remembered what their little tug of war had been about.   

"So…what do you think?"  He pointed the music player.

"Well…I haven't had a chance to really look at it yet."  

Her mouth was dry; she brought her lips together and ran her tongue over her teeth before continuing.  "It's definitely the smallest MP3 player I've ever seen, though."

"Yeah, I know." 

Her eyes went back to his. 

"I…I may not own one, but I keep up with the technology," he replied, tilting his head in a gesture Sara knew well.  "I like reading the tech magazines," he added, with a small shrug. 

"Yeah," she said quietly, "me too." 

They looked at each other.  Grissom nodded.  

"Well, of course, it's the audio tuning system that makes this player special.  The lanyard," he noted, picking up the one they had tugged between them and balancing it across his palm so that she could see it clearly, "is the real innovation.  The markings on it aren't just decorative.  They're what makes this--"

"The first fully functional, wearable technology," Sara interrupted calmly, as if she were merely continuing her own train of thought.  "The user can control the volume and program the tracks just by touching the markings on the cloth…"

Her voice trailed off as she admired the way the dashes formed an elongated triangle from the midpoint on both sides of the lanyard, the longest lines representing the higher volumes and the shortest lines, the lower ones.  She guessed that the smaller, solid triangles that were right below the volume controls were for shuffling through the tracks programmed into the player, while the dots probably allowed you to repeat songs and turn the device on or off. 

"There's something about it…"  She frowned as she searched for the words. 

"The clean edges…No extraneous text telling you what to push, like you'd see on a normal stereo or CD player.  With this, you just…feel your way around the device."  He ran the thumb of the hand that held the lanyard along its light gray material, tracing the controls.  "It's almost…"

"Intuitive.  Intuitive cognition.  Like reading a symbol that requires no translation into words at all.  That's why the marks have to look like what they represent.  The volume control fades downward, just the way sound diminishes gradually.  The track control goes either forward or back, so naturally there are two sets of triangles for that, 'pointing' you in either direction…"

She smiled again. "It's like a graphical language."

"Neat, efficient, nothing wasted.  People could use it anywhere in the world without the need to translate anything."

"So, it's beyond a graphical language…it's a universal one."

"Pretty close, I think.  And a lot better than Esperanto."  

She laughed as they stood facing each other, heads bent forward, voices lowered to a quiet undertone despite the chattering of the crowd around them.  Sara reached out to take the player from him, her fingers grazing his hand.  Even after she had pulled it away and held it in the air, Grissom kept his palm extended between them.  She stared at his hand for a moment, and then raised her eyes to a spot somewhere around his throat.  Her hands pulled the loop of the lanyard apart just before she gently lowered it over his head.  The player settled itself in the upper part of his chest.  Silvered and gleaming, the slim case stood out against the densely black material of his shirt.

"You try it first." 

He seemed to hesitate again, a hint of strain pulling at the skin just below his eyes.  When she drew her brows together and began to ask if something were wrong, he quickly fitted the earphones into his ears.  Although he couldn't expect to hear the music at all well, he wasn't willing to disappoint her.  He probably had done enough of that lately, even if she didn't know it.  Did she know?   What had she heard?  If she had heard, did she care?  Either way, it wasn't the kind of question you ask.  _"So, what have you heard about me and…?"_   He wondered, not for the first time, if she'd asked herself the same questions, trying to gauge what he knew of that EMT.  Of course, that assumed she still cared what he thought at all, now that she had a real life with the man.

_That's just it, isn't it?_  

That was the reality.  He had walked away from Lady Heather almost as quickly as he had approached her in the first place, but Sara was still with that guy.  No matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise, there was no real reason to think that would change, either.  Why should it, when all the same conditions applied?  The guy was still younger, better looking, healthy and whole, normal.  Grissom was still the same bundle of deficiencies he had been before.   More so, really, since his problem was worse.  More so, since he was certainly less able now to cast the first stone in this little punishment they had been meting out to each other for the past few months.  Maybe they were close to "even" now, but if so, it was in the most depressing way imaginable.  Depressing to him, at least, since he had seen no sign that Sara was unhappy with her choice, or had any regrets.  

_How did we get here?_   He didn't know, but the truth was that they had.  

He watched her.  She was saying something, softly, smiling in between the words, trying to be normal and not just hold everything against him.  That was Sara.  _Generous and warm and…_ Some things didn't change; he'd known that about her almost from the first day they met.  Just then the static rose still higher, forcing his eyes back to her lips as he tried to remember if he had ever told her that.  Knowing the kind of man he was, one afraid of giving away that which does not lie, he was sure he had not.  Good thing, because if she ever did put together enough of what he saw when he looked at her, she would come find him once and for all.   And once found, he was nowhere near strong enough to lose himself again.  Better that she should never realize the power she had.  Better that he should never figure out how to tell her otherwise.  Too much had happened, too much time had passed, and all that was left for him now was…

"So, shall we?"

He watched that smile, tentative but still strong, and felt a little more of the tightness slip away.  He nodded.

Determined not to question what she was doing or why, Sara put out her hand and brushed his shirt as she slid one side of the lanyard between her fingers.  Her thumb was poised over the controls and as she began to consider how to use them, she looked up.  His eyes, steady and very, very blue, were fixed on hers.  She pressed the first dot.

"Can you hear it?"

He read the words, and then looked back up into her eyes.  

She eased her thumb further up the cloth to touch the volume.  He looked at her.  She touched it again.  Once more.  Once more.  His expression shifted, but just barely.  Surely it was too loud. 

Isn't it too loud, she frowned, pressing the volume yet again.  Her mouth had opened to ask the question when he finally smiled and nodded to signal that she had reached the right setting.   Maybe this new technology affected the sound quality of the player.  Maybe it only seemed loud to her because her ears were a little sensitive.  Whatever the answer, she noticed that some of the tightness around his eyes had eased now; he seemed a little more relaxed.  Pleased, she instinctively tightened her grasp on the strap and tugged it against his neck.

"Well, what's it like?  Does it really work?"

"Oh, it works.  Here…"

The light touch of his fingers against her ear made her shiver, but only for an instant.  She leaned forward, just an inch or so, just enough to make it easier for him to position what he had just taken from his right ear into hers.  The switch only took a moment, but the skin he had touched seemed to burn.  She was trying not to dwell on what it was that made him smell so good, but…it was like bittersweet chocolate, the dark kind, mixed with…

Afraid that he would notice her fascination, she leaned back, trying to return to her original position, which was still too close.  

Grissom, grateful for the chance to relieve the ear that seemed to be worse today, took the other side of the lanyard in his hand, and gently touched the shortest volume bars.  What worked for him would be far too loud for her.  He saw her face clear as the music was lowered to a tolerable level and her eyes traveled between his fingers and the source of the music.  

"Wow, Grissom, can you believe--"

"So, how're you folks doing today?"

Full of good cheer and even better humor, the voice startled them both.

"Ah, I see you're looking at one of our biggest advances this year.  What do you think?"

Sara could see Grissom blink at the man, an eager, friendly sort who, despite their non-acquaintance, somehow let his hands find their shoulders.  She wanted to shoo him away, but flashed him a smile instead. 

"It's great, thanks."

"Rob."   He pointed to his nametag, as if Sara had asked.  She had not.  

"Pretty neat stuff, huh?  Have you played with all the controls already?"

Before Sara could answer, he thrust his finger near her hand and wagged it up and down.  "The triangle.  That controls the—"

"Volume," she said politely.  "Yeah, we know."

"And the two sets of smaller triangles, these here, are for—"

"Track selection.  Yes, we know."  Grissom was also polite, although he continued to stare at the man, willing him to take the hint.

"Oh, okay, so you've figured out the basics," Rob conceded.  He seemed a little glum, but then his eyes brightened.  "But, I bet that I can wow you with something you haven't figured out yet.  This dot here is a function button.  All you have to do is touch it twice, and then touch the up arrow once, and…"

The shorter man released Grissom's shoulder and swept the air with his hand.  "And, voila!  You activate a voice recognition program in the player that will decipher lyrics and beam them to any computer, and even most PDAs.  By the end of the year, you'll even be able to beam it to your cell phone, too."

Sara followed the path of the infrared beam from the end of the MP3 unit to the screen Rob was pointing to.  She could see lines of text appearing on the screen, one at a time, as the program "heard" each lyric.

"No way."

He grinned. "Isn't that, like, the coolest thing?  You know how it is when you're listening to some new song you've discovered, but you can't figure out the words no matter how many times you replay it and there's no liner notes to tell you?  Well, yeah, you can search the web for the lyrics, but if the group's obscure, and the best groups almost always are, good luck with that."   

Rob laughed, showing just about all the teeth in his mouth, enjoying the look of frank amazement on both of his listeners' faces.  He paused for a moment, before looking directly at Sara. "Come on, tell me that this doesn't totally bump our player up to the top of your anniversary wish list."  

He wagged his head at Grissom like a co-conspirator.   "She'll love it, I promise.  My wife is thrilled.  This was one of the first product test units I brought home that she actually wanted to keep.  I've put that poor woman through hell with stuff that never even made it to market, but she's forgiven me now."   Grissom jumped slightly as the man slapped his shoulder like an old friend.

"And don't worry, it'll be priced reasonably.  We're talking $300 to $350, retail.  It should be in stores by summer.  But don't wait to buy thinking the price will drop after the first few months.  My sources tell me that our competitors are nowhere near to putting out their version of it, so the price should stay steady for at least a year."

The man kept on going, talking at a pace and volume that brooked no interruption.  He was well into his spiel now, so much so that neither Sara nor Grissom was able to break in and correct his misapprehension.  Not that either one was in any rush to do so.  It wasn't as though they were ever going to see him again, after all, so what did it matter if he walked away thinking they were…Sara had been trying valiantly to take in Rob's patter, out of politeness, but Grissom's eyes had drifted from the salesman to her, and stayed there.  She turned to him, and they stared at each other.  Why a total stranger could see them together more easily than they ever had… The answer was there, hiding in their eyes, but before either one could see it, they both turned back to the relative safety of the stranger, who was now offering them another little gift.

"Of course, we've been handing out all kinds of stuff today.  My personal favorite, or well, my wife's favorite, is the group you're listening right now.  I like to say that listening to these guys is sort of like catching lightning in a bottle, since this is their only album together.  Just two college kids who wrote songs and sang together, made one great album, and then went their separate ways.  It's great stuff, very poetic, and you know, intellectual."  

He laughed again, coloring slightly.  Grissom shot Sara an amused look, figuring that the man had probably just described something a little more important to him than the album.  "Anyway, here you go, two copies for you both."

He handed one shrink-wrapped CD to Sara, and the other to Grissom.  They both stared down at the cover image.  Two women, young, laughing, caught in mid-leap as they ran down a muddy road between bare fruit trees strung along two staked fences.  The photo was black and white, stark but not harsh, and wonderfully composed.  The free form script told them this was The Story and that the lightning in a bottle was "The Angel in the House."  

"Well, I should leave you two alone to enjoy yourselves," Rob said finally, sounding like a man who knows he has closed well.  "Oh, hey, just so you know, I can tell from the lyrics that are up there now what the next track is.  Just keep holding the player upward like this and you'll see it appear on screen.  I think you'll really like it.  My wife and I sure do."  

He was already backing away from them.  "Hey, and thanks for stopping by, okay?"  He waved, and a moment later, melted into the crowd. 

They watched him leave, having still been unable to get a word in, even one of thanks.  Grissom shook his head, but held the player in the position Rob had shown them.  He had little choice, since he couldn't expect Sara to tolerate the high volume he needed to hear the music.  And who knows, he thought bleakly, maybe this is the kind of technology I'll need once I can't… Sara's hand brushed him again as she touched the volume, trying to find a middle ground between the loudness he seemed to prefer and the lower volume that was easier for her.   It still wasn't loud enough, but he looked at her steadily as she adjusted the controls just for him.  She smiled when she felt his eyes on her, and her face begin to burn as if he had touched her there, too.  Unsure that she could look at him right at that moment, she took a step closer to him instead.  As she did, he leaned in towards her, letting his body pretend that it could reunite his earphone with hers by closing the distance between them.  Neither spoke, choosing to simply watch the screen in silence.  The track had just started. They followed with their eyes as the slow sweetness of the song revealed itself on screen, one word and one line at a time.

If you were blind, would it all come down to this— 

_Would you still love me?_

_And if I were wrong, would it still be the same fade to black?_

_Falling, falling away, I am falling,_

_falling away from love again_

_If there were time to say everything, and no more,_

_Although it's indistinct,_

_If there were days and nights alone, again,_

_would you still reach for me?_

_Falling, falling away, I am falling,_

_falling away from love again_

_Because if you were blind, it would all come down to this—_

_I would still love you_

_And if you were wrong,_

_it would still be the same fade to black_

_'Cause I am falling, falling in love, falling,_

_falling in love with you again_

The women's voices faded softly, mingling soothing sounds in Sara's ear before she heard the last, single guitar chord that ended their harmony.  Grissom's breath warmed the right side of her face; he was very close.  She didn't shiver, there were no fine bumps assaulting her skin.  She only felt the warmth, and the sense of quiet between them, even in the midst of all the noise swirling around.  She put her finger on the cord and turned the player off.  Then she raised her dark eyes to his face.  He was waiting for her to look into his eyes, but she delayed the moment, indulging in a painstaking inventory of his jaw, the cleft in the chin, his cheeks, smooth and slightly full, his nose, the skin below his eyes, which was now no longer tight at all.  By the time she reached his eyes, his hand was moving towards her face and she heard his voice.

"Sara…I—"

"Hey, baby.  I've been looking all over for you."

She felt the chill like a rush of air between them as Grissom stepped back so quickly that the earphone was pulled from her ear.  As she tried to catch it, her CD tumbled to the ground.  

"I'm sorry, it's my fault.  I didn't mean to pull it out of your ear like that."  His words came to her slowly, and it took her a moment to react.

"No, no.  It's me, I wasn't paying attention."  As Grissom bent down to pick up her CD, Sara could feel Hank's hand wrap itself around her elbow. 

"You okay, Sara?"  He rubbed her elbow.

"Yeah, um…yeah, I'm fine."  

Grissom had straightened back up.  He looked at her, and then at Hank.

"You're Sara's boss, right? Hi, I'm—"

"Yes.  And you're…Hank, isn't it?"

"I guess everyone knows by now, yeah."  Sara bit her lip as Hank chuckled.  She had no idea if Grissom had heard what she'd said a couple of weeks ago, but if he hadn't, she definitely didn't want him to start wondering why "everyone" ought to know by now.  

_Too late_.  When he looked at her, without anger, but only a sad kind of understanding, she knew that he knew.  As they watched each other, sending silent missives back and forth, he also knew that she knew what he had hoped to hide as well.  She tried to smile, just a little.  He sighed somewhere inside, and tried to smile back.  With all the history between them, there wasn't much point to torturing each other over the things they had let spiral out of control.  They would still be falling in love again, over and over until the end.  

Grissom held out his hand.  "Don't forget your CD."

Sara took it, finally breaking the look between them as she lowered her eyes to the disk.  

"That was a…beautiful song.  But I don't see the title here."

His hand appeared near hers, and she let him turn the disk over so that they could see the song list.  He slid it back into her grasp, and pointed to the second to last title.  Number thirteen.  _Love Song.  _

Hank was tugging her away, steering her forward.  She allowed him to lead her for a few steps, but soon stopped and motioned for him to go ahead and let her catch up.  He shrugged and surged forward, his mind already anticipating the next display. 

"Well, I guess that figures.  Thirteen is both good luck, and bad, right?"

Grissom had turned slightly as she walked past him and now they were face to face again, although the distance between them could now be measured in feet, rather than inches.  He looked down at his CD when she looked at him, and tapped it lightly against fingers.  

"There is no such thing as luck."

He looked at her.  She waited.

"Only odds and probabilities.  Even what seems like chaos has its own kind of order."

She nodded.  

"You should probably go.  I think he's waiting for you."

"Is he?"

He had seen that look before, in the instant before she disappeared from his door months and months ago.  She hadn't waited for his answer then.  Her face was open as she waited now.

"Yes, he is."

He watched her smile, tentative but still strong.  She turned to leave.  As she moved further and further away, throngs of people began to flow in between them, blocking his view.  He did not move, choosing instead to keep his eyes focused on the path his instincts told him she would take.   When she did look over her shoulder, searching the distance for his face, he was still there in her sight line.  She met his eyes one last time, and raised a hand.  He lifted his own in reply, mirroring her in the moment before she finally disappeared.

_(Fin)_


End file.
